Mr Sensitivity
by Wisecrack Idiots
Summary: Animated. One was so reserved that he epitomized the word "stoic," while the other went about gallivanting on an emotional high. So of course it made sense for Jazz to test the limits of Prowl's social handicaps.
1. Taking the Bait

**Title**: Mr. Sensitivity  
**Fandom**: Animated  
**Genre**: Romance/Humor  
**Pairings**: Jazz/Prowl  
**Rating**: M

**Warnings**: Lots of graphic interfacing of the sticky kind.

**Disclaimer**: There isn't a day that goes by where I'm not sorely tempted to go into a bookstore and put a slash mark through the word "copyright" in every single dictionary I can get my hands on.

**Summary**: The idea for monstrosity was, believe it or not, inspired by a picture on deviantART. Said picture can be found at the following link (remove the spaces):

_ crimson-nemesis. deviantART._

_com/  
_

_ gallery/ ?q=jazz#/d3cttbu_

Make sure to thank **crimson-nemesis** for drawing my future brain child!

**Author's Note**: This is the first time I've ever written hardcore smut. This is also the first time I've ever attempted a TF story set within the Animated continuity. My former opinion about the show was summed up in eight simple words: _what the hell was wrong with their chins?_ Of course, after a mini-tantrum and some much-invested research into the show, I altered my opinion…somewhat. It took a lot of fanart to make me appreciate their designs. A lot of my conversion is thanks to a fun meme done by **digistardbz** on deviantART. Fans of Animated should take a stroll through her gallery and bask in the awesomeness of said picture:

_ digistardbz. deviantART._

_com/  
_

_ art/ Trust-Me-Baby-162015860_

* * *

Chapter One: **Taking the Bait**

He really should have seen this coming.

In hindsight, it had been his excitement to escape their base and acquire some much-needed alone time that had been his downfall. Having felt confined in the rundown warehouse, Prowl decided that performing some errands would satisfy his desire to stretch his legs. Unfortunately, in his impatience to escape, he had neglected one tiny detail.

Its name was Jazz.

Ever since the arrival of the Elite Guard over a month ago, the other ninja had made it his mission in life to prod into his team's affairs. Not a day went by where the brilliantly white Autobot couldn't be seen lounging around their base, challenging Bumblebee and Sari to those obnoxious videogames, arm wrestling with Bulkhead, or heckling the resident medic. After a week or two of Jazz's presence, Prowl found a way to maneuver about the base that didn't involve their paths crossing.

This strategy lasted about a day before Jazz had come to the conclusion that their new arrangement simply would not do.

From that moment onward, Jazz became Prowl's vigilant shadow.

To many of his comrades, it was "endearing" to watch the sleek white-and-silver ninja trail after him like a lost puppy. To Prowl, it was aggravating. His routine was abruptly invaded, and the black-and-gold mech was powerless to stop it. For all of his planning, Jazz still managed to spontaneously pop out of nowhere with that too-wide grin and those swaying hips. There was no explanation behind the behavior, either. Both were polar opposites with contrasting personalities—in fact, as far as Prowl was concerned, the only thing they shared in common was their martial arts training and faction emblems. Where Prowl lacked social graces, Jazz practically oozed charisma. While one preferred solitude and reflection the other basked in jaunty music and constant company.

Why Jazz had developed a sudden fascination with him was beyond reasoning.

Perhaps the other ninja's constant presence had attributed to his longing for privacy. It certainly wasn't beyond the realm of possibility, given that every other second was spent either _with_ Jazz or trying to _hide_ from Jazz.

Today, however, would be different. Today he was going to make a break for it.

With his list of items firmly tucked away, Prowl moved through the base in utter stealth, eager to be driving down the humans' asphalt roads. Vorns of practice enabled him to cling to the minutest shadows along the walls as if he himself were a part of them. As the lithe mech padded toward the base's entrance, a cheerful voice halted him in his tracks.

"Hey, Prowl!"

From his location on the worn-down sofa Bumblebee waved him over. Legs were lazily kicked over the back of the sofa as the scout gazed upside-down at the TV screen. An impish smile bloomed across his face as he chirped, "Feel like playing a game or two with us?"

"Yeah!" A pair of red pigtails poked over his thighs. With wide-eyed innocence Sari tacked on, "You _never_ take us up on our offer! Come on, please? Just one round?"

As per usual, the gold-and-black mech dismissed the invitation with flick of his hand. "I have errands to attend to, Sari. And you know that I have no desire to partake in such games. Perhaps another time."

"Pfft." The eight-year-old responded to his answer with a strange hissing sound halfway between a huff and a snort. Gesturing with her controller, Sari complained, "You _always _say that!"

Bumblebee spared a second to pause their game before flashing Prowl a broad grin. As the smaller Autobot sprawled across the furniture in a luxurious stretch, he said flippantly, "Maybe he never wants to play with us 'cause he knows he's gonna lose. I bet the 'I have errands' slag is just an excuse to avoid some serious ownage."

For a second Prowl opened his mouth, debating whether or not to reprimand the canary-yellow scout for cursing in front of Sari. There was also the meticulous part of his processor which felt the need to correct Bumblebee's grammar—_Just what in the name of Primus is "ownage" supposed to mean?_ Both musings, however, promptly withered and died as a third voice rang across the spacious room like a death knell.

"Careful what ya say, kid. We ninjas got mad skills. Prowl's jus' sparin' ya th' shame of runnin' away with your spoiler tucked between your legs."

With a smile that could outshine Christmas lights, Jazz strolled into the room. Audio-shattering Earth music heralded the white mech's appearance. As a pair of eyes and two sets of optics fell on the new arrival, Jazz automatically adjusted the setting of his internal speakers, reducing the volume to a blessedly lower pitch. Blue visor flashing, he sauntered forward, pausing behind the back of the couch to smirk at the eight-year-old and scout.

"Oh, really?" A dubious optic arched upward on Bumblebee's faceplates. "Then why hasn't he shown us any of those so-called 'mad skills'?"

Before Prowl could defend himself Jazz spared him the effort: "'Bee, my friend, let me put it for ya this way." Lips twisting into a smirk, he leaned into and whispered, "If ol' Prowl gave away all of his secrets at once, there wouldn't be any surprises left." Ever so slightly Jazz tipped his head to the side. "'Sides, some of that is…_classified_."

"Classified," echoed Bumblebee and Sari in perfect rapt synchrony. Both tilted their faces to study Prowl with renewed fascination, as if he were some bizarre organism beneath a microscope. The gold-and-black Autobot subdued a sigh. Really, now he was just laying it on thick, putting ideas in their impressionable heads no less. Being the creature Jazz was, it was no wonder he could charm others into clinging to every last word. Vaguely Prowl paused to consider if there had been an innuendo buried somewhere in there. Not that it mattered; Jazz was an enigma at best left for others to—

A light, squeezing pressure fell on Prowl's shoulder, nearly causing him to jump. Jerking his helm sideways brought him almost nose-to-nose with Jazz. With a smooth curl of his mouth the Elite Guard patted his shoulder before addressing the room at large: "In fact, we got some ninja business t' attend to now, so if you'll excuse us?"

A firm grip turned and steered a shellshocked Prowl away from their gaping audience. Head dipped close to his audio, Jazz inquired, "Tryin' t' get out of Dodge, huh? I can sympathize."

_No, you really can't_.

"Hey, if you're goin' out on a coffee run, mind if I tag along? I'm in th' need of some fresh air, an' man, let me tell ya, I…"

Without giving Prowl the chance to protest, Jazz had neatly folded himself into his alt mode. Revving his engine ever-so-slightly, the ninja playfully goaded, "Well? You comin' or what? Hurry up an' transform so we can hit th' roads!"

That was how Prowl found himself twenty minutes later speeding through Detroit with a persistent bumper driving up his rear.

"Jazz," the ninja warned. Had he not been confined to his alt mode, Prowl would have sent a caustic glare at his companion. As it was, tone managed convey his increasing annoyance.

"Yeah?" No heed was taken of said annoyance.

"You're tailgating."

"So?" chirped Jazz. Sunlight glinted off of his windshield as the sports car accelerated, playfully nudging the other Autobot from behind. Stifling a sigh, Prowl added another notch to his speed and tried to place a legal amount of distance between them. To his chagrin, Jazz once more closed the gap and matched his velocity, both just toeing the speed limit. "It's not as if ya won't warn me when you're 'bout t' stop. An' we both know that we're better than any human drivers."

Another sigh, this one less inconspicuous. "While there is some truth to those words, we are on humans' roads, and as such, are required to obey their laws."

Three meters ahead, the traffic lights for their lane flickered to yellow. A picture popped up in his CPU of him, idling in traffic for an additional minute, trapped at the condensing intersection with _him_ all but buffeting exhaust over his aft. It wasn't a pretty mental picture, and Prowl could all but feel the fluid in his pumps freeze over.

_Oh Primus no_.

Determined to not be condemned by the yellow light, Prowl revved his engine hard and barreled forward. Ignoring his comrade's laugh—"_Hypocrite!_"—the motorcycle all but sent his front tire in the air, determined to beat out the impending change to red. Like the falling blade of a guillotine, the yellow flashed to brilliant crimson mere seconds before he could continue down the road. Rubber screeched against hardened tar as the gold-black Autobot skidded to a stop almost directly atop the white line dividing his lane. Rich, handsome laughter followed Prowl as the sports car dogged his heel, evidently amused by the frantic display.

"Aww, c'mon, Prowl, I'm not_ that_ bad," Jazz drawled, and once again dared to prod him from behind. At the contact shivers lanced down the length of his axles. "You're makin' me feel like a leper with th' way ya were all but tearin' up th' road." Rather than sound offended, however, Jazz easily laughed off Prowl's dash for freedom, and had the audacity to continue bumping his rear wheel. Like a kid trying to see how many times he could get away with poking the grizzly bear at the zoo before it decided, enough was enough, and ate him.

While the motorcycle replied he kept his attention focused on the traffic lights overhead, _begging_ for them to change. "I am in a hurry. Your presence has nothing to do with my desire to avoid rush hour traffic."

"But rush hour ain't 'til five, and it's only four now…," Jazz trailed off, wondering. Silence descended between the two Cybertronians before he felt the need to break it: "What's so important that ya wanted t' risk getting' pulled over by th' police for speedin'?"

"First," Prowl sighed, "I was not going over the speed limit. I was driving at thirty-five—"

"In a thirty mile zone," Jazz pointed out. He sounded caught between amused and dubious.

_Frag the mech and his attention to detail_. He revved his engine. "Again, I reiterate: I was in a hurry. There was an eighty-seven percent chance that I could have made that light before it turned. Besides, were you not the one who said, 'We're better than any human drivers'?"

A snort answered him. "Prowler, ya'd need t' have been goin' at ultrasonic speeds t' make that. Unless ya got jet turbines tucked under your upholstery, then trust me—ya weren't goin' t' get there before it went red."

"Regardless, I…wait. Did you just call me 'Prowler'?"

"Yup," admitted Jazz unabashedly. Soft laughter resounded from him as he crept closer, metal brushing against metal in a touch that made Prowl flinch. "It's my new nickname for ya. Like it?"

Gravel crunched beneath him as Prowl shifted impatiently on his wheels. For a heartbeat he contemplated the logic behind Jazz's words before concluding that there was, in fact, none. "Isn't the point of a nickname to shorten the length of one's name? Mine is already monosyllabic. And I already have an adequate designation—the one I was _created_ with." Surely Jazz couldn't disagree with that?

But no, apparently Jazz wasn't satisfied with that explanation. "In the traditional sense, perhaps. But what am I supposed t' shorten it t'? Pro? Pow? Now that's just stupid."

As if the conversation they were having wasn't already.

"You do know what a 'prowler' is, right?" the Praxian inquired stiffly. Perhaps there was still something left to be salvaged from their debate.

A snicker answered him. "Yeah? So?"

Apparently not.

As Prowl debated whether or not to rear-end the mech to get him to shut up, the lights mercifully went back to green. His frame sagged in relief as the ninja took off, Jazz weaving behind him. "Anyway, ya never answered my earlier question. What are we doin' today?"

"I," the motorcycle declared quietly, "am going to the local bookstore to pick up several novels I pre-ordered." _And _you_, if I had my way, wouldn't be here_.

For a klik the car's engine stalled. "Bookstore, huh?" Just then Prowl experienced the rare desire to smirk at hearing the normally confident Autobot sound apprehensive.

Unable to help himself, he commented in a deceptively airy tone, "If you do not wish to go, then please, feel free to return to the base or Magnus' ship. You are not obligated to accompany me." Maybe, just maybe, Jazz would take the bait.

A gap in the conversation gave him the impression that Jazz was doing some quick thinking. Before the gold and black mech could extend his offer again, the white ninja came to a decision: "Nah, man, it's cool. I said I was comin', didn't I? No backin' out now."

Damn.

Fortunately or unfortunately for him, the two had arrived at their destination. Gracefully Prowl cruised to a halt in front of the doors and slid to a standstill. Seamlessly he unfolded from his alt mode, gears, cables, and Energon lines realigning and sliding into place. Behind him, the telltale whirs of transformation signaled that Jazz had done the same. Straightening to his full height, Prowl indulged in a brief sigh and dared to glance over his shoulder. Not even five feet away Jazz was stretching, flexing his torso in a slender curve of pristine white plating. Joints popped as the Elite Guard rolled his shoulders, meanwhile shooting the gaping humans a wicked grin. Under his glinting visor the pedestrians quickly found themselves getting back on task, suddenly more interested in staring at the ground than at the metallic alien.

Had Prowl been less extroverted, he would have facepalmed. Instead, he settled on glaring at his comrade.

"_Must_ you intimidate the local inhabitants?"

"Heh. Don' get your tanks in a twist, Prowler—"

"'Prowl,'" he corrected on reflex.

"—I'm jus' messin' with 'em. 'Sides, it'll teach 'em not t' stare."

"And maybe," the gold-black Autobot seethed, "you could have put them in a chokehold with your nunchaku while you were at it. Either way, you would have given the same impression. Now"—he spared a backwards glare over his shoulder as he approached the glass doors, which slid open at his proximity—"while I know that you need to be constantly entertained, I must ask you to behave yourself while we're here. As you are in my company, any behavioral issues that you feel the need to display will be associated with me. And as I have a relatively good reputation with the employees here, I would prefer if you didn't tarnish what shred of credential I still have."

Upper lip jutted outward as Jazz pouted at him. "C'mon, ya really think I'd mess that up for ya? Give a mech a break." Without warning the ninja extended a hand, reaching for a metallic bicep and giving it a reassuring squeeze. At the abrupt invasion of personal space Prowl flinched, but refused to jerk free of the contact. Softly, Jazz leaned in toward him, their vents mingling as he brought himself visor-to-optic. "'Sides, I'd never do anything t' hurt ya. That much I can say, at th' least."

Their shared proximity only wedged doubt further into his CPU. Gingerly, Prowl rolled his shoulder free, carefully removing his encircled arm from Jazz's grasp. With an _I-do-not-approve_ look aimed at Jazz, he shook his helm, crouched, and ducked into the Barnes & Noble. All the while his processor reeled at the inappropriate display.

No sooner had the black-gold Autobot stepped into the vaulted room he sent Jazz a private message over their comm. line: _Touch me in public again and I will snap your hand off at the wrist_.

Outwardly, Jazz gave no sign of having received the ping. However, as the Elite Guard member crouched before a display table to study the novels, he responded, _Does that mean I'm allowed t' touch ya in private?_ The question sounded almost like a leer.

_What—? No!_ Were it not for his incredible self-restraint, Prowl would have snapped his reply aloud. Instead, he settled for moving past a crowd of teenagers, easily ignoring their stares as he strode purposely toward the back shelves. _I don't know what is considered appropriate or inappropriate on Magnus' ship, but while you are with my team you would do well to keep your hands to yourself. Find another outlet for your boredom if you wish, but do not use me as a toy_.

_Toy…?_ As the transmission went through Jazz skirted around several tables to reach Prowl's side. Light rippled over the crystal spanned across his face as the white mech canted his helm, appearing to be engaged in thought. He snorted dismissively, meanwhile snatching a colorful book off its shelf and flipping absently through the pages. _Trust me; I ain't toyin' with ya. Jus' who I am, y'know? Relax a lil', huh? Sheesh._

It wasn't necessarily what was said, but how it was said, that made Prowl pause halfway through stacking a second book in his arms. _If you aren't toying with me_, he inquired, albeit hesitantly, _then what are you_—

"Aww, Prowler, ya gotta be kiddin' me. _Lord of the Flies?_" the silver Cybertronian scathed. Not even bothering to ask for permission, his hand lashed out, pulling the book out of Prowl's slack hand before a protest could be formed. Mouth curled in disgust, Jazz pinched the book by the corner and held it at arm's length, as if he expected it to try and bite him. "Who in their right mind reads this garbage?"

"This," retorted Prowl, feeling just a tad slighted, "isn't 'garbage.' It's an American classic." With that said, he snatched the book right back, completely ignoring how childish the action was. While two wrongs never made a right, it certainly made him feel a hell of a lot better. "Besides, opinions aren't fact. Just because you don't like it doesn't mean that I can't enjoy worthy literature."

Beyond the visor Prowl was sure he saw Jazz roll his optics. "Worthy literature my aft," grumbled the other ninja. Oblivious to the attention he was drawing in the sports car continued to scoff, "Golding's work is a load of slag. He stranded a bunch o' kids on an island and pitted 'em against each other."

"There was a point Golding was trying to make, you know." Mouth pursed into a thin line, Prowl shifted his load and moved deeper into the aisle, pausing the crouch before a subsection labeled _Graphology_. Although, he privately admitted how startling it was that the other ninja was familiar with the book, let alone had read it. Never had he pegged his fellow as a bibliophile. "Many of the characters are allegorical to certain themes, such as savagery versus civilization, loss of innocence, or—"

"Blah, blah, blah." To Prowl's extreme irritation, Jazz had the audacity to interrupt. "Where'd ya hear that? SparkNotes? _Please_." With a full-body stretch he leaned back into the shelf and settled his weight comfortably against it. A few ominous creaks and groans resonated from the wood as it strained under the several tons of steel making itself at home. "That book is jus' another proponent of th' same mindset parroted through th' centuries. Makin' kids in school read that is like givin' 'em an instruction manual and sayin', 'Here ya go. Remember, kids, it only counts if ya _brutalize_ your friends, not jus' kill 'em.' The Board of Education is practically condemnin' society by supportin' that waste of paper." With an upturned chin Jazz huffed, "Really, ya should'a heard Sari when her dad made her read that. I never heard a kid sound so dejected."

A deep vent left Prowl as he exhaled, fighting desperately to retain his composure. "Sari was only complaining because the book in question was two hundred and forty-eight pages."

"I know, right?" Jazz lamented. "Two hours and twenty-two minutes of my life that I'll never be able t' get back."

Another barely-there sigh left Prowl as he stacked a fourth book into the crook of his arms. A single idea occurred to him, a way to get Jazz to understand and hopefully shut him up. Quietly, he quoted, "'Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.' George Santayana."

What he didn't expect was a humid waft of air curling over his audio as Jazz whispered back, "'A man is but th' product of his thoughts; what he thinks, he becomes.' Mohandas Gandhi."

Taken aback by the quick-witted response, Prowl blinked and turned his helm. All but two inches separated their olfactory sensors as Jazz peered directly into his aqua blue optics, that knowing smirk stretched across his lips. They remained like for a solid ten kliks, neither breaking contact. A constricted feeling caused the gold-black ninja's intakes to hitch, his frame tensing as Jazz slid an arm between them and stacked a fifth novel atop his growing pile. Where their plates slid together left Prowl feeling more than a bit lightheaded from the heady friction.

The grin only grew when Prowl dipped his helm to stare at a rather cartoony picture of a boy mounted on a broomstick, flying with an outstretched hand between two Doric columns.

Arms crossed confidently over his chassis, Jazz drew back to give ample breathing room, but not before he purred, "Here's somethin' to liven up that lil' stack of stupors ya got goin' on there. Try chewin' on that while ya mull over th' startlin' revelation that you're not th' only brainiac 'round here."

"I never said you weren't…" That particular statement died off as his optics skimmed over the jagged font at the top of the book. "_Harry Potter?_ I'm sorry to disappoint whatever delusions are fogging up your CPU, but I don't read children's stories."

The white warrior actually drew back in mock offense and clapped his hands over his audios. "Blasphemy!" he accused. Bleakly, Prowl wondered whether or not he had made a career change as an actor before he signed on with Magnus' crew. Some days, it certainly seemed like it.

Jazz threw his hands up in the air with a mortally wounded look. "This ain't some _children's story_. It's an epic tale of destiny, friendship, and comin' t' terms with one's self, in th' middle of a war between an orphan-turned-hero and th' most dastardly villain of all time: He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named."

_Add "dramatic storyteller" to the list of prior jobs_.

With exaggerated slowness Prowl pointed out, "And magic. Which, as far as I'm concerned, is fantasy. As in, not real."

Again, to his mild annoyance, Jazz merely shook his head back and forth. "Prowler, Prowler, ya wound me." Buoyantly he skipped after Prowl as the darker 'bot made for another section of the store. "Look at it this way: Th' humans thought giant sentient robots from outer space were th' stuff o' sci-fi before Optimus made planetfall. Does that mean we're not real?"

Unable to conjure up a logical response to that, Prowl focused on plucking another book from the shelf on his right.

Hips swayed as the saboteur sauntered past, pausing to study the shelves bordering them on either side. "Really, Prowl," he sighed, "I know Bee-boy likes t' call ya a stick in th' slag, but do ya have t' prove him right? I mean, some o' these books make fluid backup look positively fun." To emphasize his point, he gestured toward the most recently procured book in Prowl's hands: _Brave New World_.

Somewhere in the back of his head, a nerve snapped. "Really," Prowl hissed, rearing his helm around to shoot his companion a scorching look. Slamming the book in his hands shut, he jerked a thumb roughly over his shoulder and snapped, "If you're going to criticize my tastes in literature, would you mind doing it on the other side of the store? I wanted some new reading material, not a personal peanut gallery!"

In the wake of his words it occurred to Prowl, a little belatedly, that he might have said that an octave or two louder than he'd intended. Faces poked their heads out of other aisles to watch the black-gold mech as he remained stock-still, while the mech in front of him suppressed what suspiciously sounded like a snort. He was distracted from the deafening silence when his companion offered a good-natured, if not watery smile.

"I'm sorry, Prowl." Gone was the previous amusement. Were it not for the contriteness in his voice, Prowl wouldn't have been able to tell by expression if he was sorry or not. A twinge of guilt struck him as Jazz slumped his shoulders a tad, the glow of his visor softening. "I jus' thought ya might've liked t' have an intellectual debate. Ya struck me as th' type t' really get passionate and all 'bout what ya read, so I thought ya'd enjoy a chat or two. Didn't mean t' get your chevron all bent outta shape. Anyway…see ya at the register?"

Not even bothering to wait for a response, Jazz dipped his head once in a bow and trudged out of the aisle.

Well, didn't he feel like a royal jerk.

With what felt like the twentieth sigh that day Prowl tucked his stack more securely in the crook of his arm. Expression resembling its normal neutral appearance, he maneuvered around two humans and made his way down a row of shelves stacked nearly ceiling-high. This time, as he gathered the novels from about their various parts of the Barnes & Noble, the action became more of a routine than a conscious search. All that his mind could focus on was the poorly-hidden disappointment on Jazz's face, and how his spark clenched at what he'd said.

* * *

About twenty minutes later the gold-black Cybertronian found himself pacing through the aisles, running a mental list through his head:

Books? Check.

Guilt? Check.

Jazz? Unaccounted for.

Equal parts weary and worried, Prowl hitched his load more securely in his arms and slunk between the rows of books. Perhaps Jazz had been more hurt that he'd initially let on and returned to the warehouse or Magnus' ship.

Odd. Not even an hour ago the ninja would have been ecstatic to finally have shaken free of Jazz's clinginess. Now there was the smallest part of his CPU that felt the absence like shrapnel in his side. Vehemently he insisted to himself that it was more for the lack of apology than actually missing the mech's company. After all, hadn't he wanted to reclaim his blessed solitude for over a month now?

As if he could dislodge the thoughts, Prowl shook his helm. Yet they remained.

Call it luck or Primus screwing with his life, it didn't take Prowl long to locate his missing comrade. In fact, Jazz was tucked in an aisle that he had previously overlooked, so it was fairly easy to comb through the store and find him. White plating glinted in the sunlight filtering in through the nearby windows, though the brightness of his armor was outmatched by his grin. As Prowl drew silently closer Jazz glanced up. Back pressed up against the stone wall, books encasing him on both sides, the Elite looked as far from unhappy as he had originally surmised. Denta were bared with devilish delight as Prowl padded to a standstill two feet away.

With a lazy curl of his lips Jazz placed the book he'd been engaged in into his lap. Brightly the silver 'bot inquired, "Did'ja find what ya were lookin' for?"

"Yes," Prowl admitted with a slight frown.

Jazz gave a pleased hum. "Cool. So did I." To illustrate his point he rapped the binding of the novel folded between his legs.

Curiosity bubbled up in his chassis. Instead of immediately apologizing like he had intended to, Prowl tipped his helm to the side and studied the crimson backings. "I wasn't aware that you were looking for something in particular."

A shrug. "Neither did I. Found somethin' that meets my particular agenda for today, though, so I figured I'd buy it."

"Ah." Feeling uncharacteristically awkward, he gave a pointed cough that grated out of his vocalizer, gaining Jazz's attention. Drawing in a quick vent, Prowl began, "I wanted to apologize for my actions earlier. I didn't mean to offend you with what I said—"

Jazz dismissed it with a flick his wrist. "Nah, don' worry 'bout it, Prowler. It's water under the bridge now. 'Sides, it's hard t' stay mad at ya." Another cheerful smile was aimed his way, and it summarily managed to banish what little guilt remained.

Unable to help himself, the Praxian queried, "I thought you were the one who was averse to coming here. What could you have possibly found to change that?"

It seemed that Jazz had been anticipating that question. Without bothering to look up from the book he had resumed reading he pointed toward a sign nailed into one of the shelves over his head. Curiously Prowl followed the direction of Jazz's finger. When his optics landed on the words overhead, he suddenly found a desire to be very far away.

_Adult Section_.

Static crackled in his vocalizer as he stared incredulously at the mech seated at his pedes. To his chagrin, Jazz slanted him a glance that in that one klik look downright lecherous. Just to drive the message home he flipped the book in his hands so the gold-black mech could get a clear look at the title: _Sexual Healing and Techniques Used_.

He must have made a face, because Jazz suddenly laughed. "Aww, hey now. There's nothin' wrong with a little curiosity in intercourse."

Drawing himself to his full height (admittedly no taller than the mech sitting at his pedes, but still), Prowl stared coldly down at the Elite Guard. "There is a distinct difference between 'curiosity' and _porn_, Jazz. Now, if you're quite done looking at that vulgar material, I would like to leave."

Immediately Jazz placated, "Fine, fine. Hang on; let me tidy up this mess I made. Wouldn't be nice t' leave these lyin' around for th' employees t' clean up…" Even as he crouched and began scooping up the filthy little books, Prowl noticed that a small stack was being set aside while the remaining novels were tucked back onto the shelves. His suspicions were confirmed when Jazz hoisted three differently-sized novels off the floor and into his hands, all featuring telltale names and even cruder cover art. Pointedly Prowl kept his distance as Jazz sashayed toward the store front, determined to ignore the pesky little books and whatever questionable intentions Jazz had planned for them. His aversion didn't go unnoticed, however, as the silver 'bot beside him drawled, "What'cha got against interfacin', anyway?"

The question caught him momentarily off guard; not because he wasn't expecting it (this was Jazz, after all—all blunt and no tact), but because of the way Jazz said it: voice concerned, intrigued, with a sideways turn of the head.

Better to get this discussion out of the way before Jazz started obsessing over the answer. "I have no qualms with engaging in pleasurable pursuits," Prowl clarified, purposely trying to keep his gaze locked on the nearing checkout counter. "However, I find items like those vile and degrading. What can be gained from reading pornographic material, I'll never know. Never mind that those books are about another species!"

Any hopes for keeping the nature of their discussion covert were lost when Jazz threw back his helm and laughed deeply. "Prude," he teased between snickers. "An' t' think, ya called me a critic."

Desperate to try and lower the volume lest they be overheard, Prowl hissed, "There's no need to broadcast this…_this_ topic to the entire store!"

A hearty slap on the back was his answer, slightly jarring the books in his hands. "Don' matter t' me if others overhear. I'm not th' one with th' problem." Prowl's protests were cancelled out as Jazz chirped, "Anyway, I think it's pretty obvious what can 'be gained' from readin' beauties like these." Visor flashing, the saboteur ignored Prowl's scandalized expression and continued: "Personally, I think th' similarities between us an' th' humans are fascinatin'."

"Still…" He wasn't quite sure why he was arguing his point so vehemently, only that the leering books in Jazz's hands sent a thrill of disgust through him. Arguably, there was nothing wrong, per se, with self-derived pleasure. It was simply watching Jazz giving a verbal play-by-play to the entire store that made Prowl feel very self-conscious. Interface, no matter the species, was a private matter. And having this debate with Jazz, of all mechs! Not exactly the most comforting thing in the world, especially when the naughty part of his CPU couldn't help but wonder why Jazz was so wholeheartedly interested in the contrasts between their species. It went without saying that this was a conversation he'd rather have been left out of, for more reasons than one.

When no replies were forthcoming Jazz had to spare him a reassuring look. Though there really wasn't anything reassuring about the smirk plastered on his faceplates. "Aww, don' tell me you're gettin' all bent outta shape 'cause ya think I've got some nasty business goin' on with th' fleshies!"

He sighed. "Your powers of deduction are astounding," he deadpanned, and for a klik Jazz actually paused in forming his reply.

"Was that sarcasm I just heard? Let me record this for posterity. August 24: not only did Prowl crack a joke, but th' end of th' world started a few months earlier than as predicted." Unimpressed silence greeted Jazz's expectant smile as he beamed at Prowl, like a puppy waiting for praise.

"…no," Prowl at last muttered. "On every level known to mech and man, _no_, Jazz." Tiredly he brought the hand not balancing his books to scrub briefly at his face before pinch the bridge of his nose. Optics shuttered, he at last voiced, "It would simply put my mind at rest knowing that those…books, if I can even call them that, won't end up spreading around my home like a case of cosmic rust."

Again laughter followed, accompanied by another playful smack on his backplates that nearly sent him stumbling forward. He brushed down his dermal armor, as if trying to remove any lingering traces of Jazz from himself just in case some of the mech's questionable habits rubbed off.

"Oh, don' worry, Prowl," Jazz soothed. A dark smile flashed across his faceplates. "I'm not into that sort of stuff. I like th' humans, sure, but I don' like them like _that_. Naw, I've got other plans for these beauties."

Something in the mech's words sent a nagging worry through him. Glancing warily over his shoulder, Prowl arched an optic ridge at Jazz. In a klik he decided to shove aside his self-preservation instincts to ask the one question he would regret, but needed to know: "Then what could you possibly want with—"

"May I help you?"

Prowl whipped his helm around. A bit belatedly, he realized that during their conversation (if you could even call it that) the two had wandered toward the register, inevitably leading to him standing there in front of it while arguing with the other Autobot.

The cashier was a woman he was mildly acquainted with, with neither animosity nor friendship between them. Bored, glazed eyes watched him from beneath heavily-hooded eyelids, emphasized by the middle-aged human's myriad wrinkles and frown lines along her brow and mouth. Heaving a sigh, she rapped a pencil across the counter and prompted, a tad impatiently, "What do you want today…sir?" The "sir" was tacked on as if an afterthought, as if the employee wasn't sure how to address him even after all of the previous times Prowl had visited the store.

Relieved to have an excuse to bail out of their conversation, Prowl bent over for a second, bringing himself to a closer level with the cashier. His neat little stack was placed on the counter, a hand pushing the pile toward her.

"Good afternoon, Debbie," Prowl greeted in a far more neutral tone as he straightened. While he never particularly liked this human, he figured that politeness would go a long way. He'd long memorized her nametag since his first trip to the Barnes & Noble, hoping that if he used her designation when he spoke the woman would receive him better. "I'd like to purchase these."

Behind him, Jazz muttered something along the lines of, "_No, really?_"

Discreetly, Prowl pushed his pede back to step on the white ninja's foot. A quiet grumble followed, and Prowl lessened the pressure before pulling away.

"Whatever." Just as the first barcode was slipped beneath the scanner, Debbie paused mid-swipe and looked at Jazz as if finally realizing that there was two of them. "You two payin' together?" She gestured between the two of them with the small device in her hand.

"No, of course not," came Prowl's reply, a little faster than he'd intended. A less-than-covert snort of laughter left Jazz, something which the Praxian attempted to valiantly ignore. There was just some part of him that pointblank _refused _to have his own purchase mixed with those filthy books Jazz had found. If people saw the books together, and then saw the two _of them _together, no doubt their minds would wander and jump their own unsavory conclusions. Right now, the rumor mill just wasn't something that he could handle, especially with his reputation on the line.

A tiny shiver traveled down the length of his back.

Brushing a bang out of her face, the cashier went about the slow task, ringing each of his selections up. As the last novel was scanned, the woman shifted behind the counter and tapped on a nearby keyboard. "That'll be thirty-two dollars and twenty scents," Debbie announced in a detached sort of drawl. "Cash or credit?"

A hand was already halfway into subspace as the gold-black mech supplied, "Cash."

Sometimes, he mused, it was good to help out the Detroit police. It meant that he had his own ready supply of spare change.

As his hand ventured deeper into the extra dimensional pocket, however, Prowl wasn't expecting to find that the spot where he stored his human money was vacant. Surprised but unperturbed, he dug deeper into his subspace, fingers brushing up against other objects organized with what could have only been described as OCD-efficiency. Annoyed now, he twisted his wrist, trying to suppress the feeling of mild panic as the woman regarded him with a raised eyebrow. Jazz leaned in from behind, close enough for his exvents to buffet his audial.

"Need some help?" the silver mech offered. "There's a line startin' t' buildup behind us."

Shying away from Jazz, Prowl grumbled, "I know I have my wallet! I checked it yesterday, shortly after Sari and Bumble—"

And like that, Prowl froze.

"Prowl?" When he got no response, Jazz poked him in the back of the helm. "Prowler? You oka—"

"Son of a glitch," Prowl swore, too softly for the surrounding humans to hear. Rare was the orn when he was driven to profanity, and today was no exception. Inwardly he fumed, ignoring the prodding finger, too busy seeing red to care about the hand now resting in-between his shoulders.

* * *

"_Hey, Prowl?"_

_Cracking open an optic at the sound of his name, without moving Prowl stared down. Some forty feet below a yellow and red blur were peering up at the branch he had secluded himself on. With a soft sigh the ninja upped the magnification of his optics, bringing Bumblebee and Sari more into focus. Without unfolding from his lotus position he craned his neck to get a better view. _

"_What's the matter?" Prowl called down._

_Casually the scout rocked back and forth on his heels, as if buying himself time. When Bumblebee at last gathered his thoughts, his voice came out sugary sweet, too innocent of a tone for him to actually have. _

_"You feeling generous today?"_

"_Depends on the charity I'm donating to," he answered coolly. _

_This time Sari chipped in. "Well," she stalled, "'Bee and I were gonna go to the GameStop to buy the newest Assassin's Creed game. But, you see, I kinda forgot to ask Dad for a few dollars, so…"_

"_So you're turning to me for a spot," he summed up in a flat tone._

_Falling back on begging, the golden minibot pleaded, "Please, Prowl? Please? Look, we'll pay you back! With interest, too, if you want! We just really, really,_ really_ need to get this game. Like, we'll both offline if we don't get it right now."_

"_You mean, 'die,' 'Bee," Sari corrected him. "You keep forgetting that I don't 'offline' like you guys do."_

_He decided to ignore that. "I'm sure that if I went to Ratchet for a medical opinion, he'd tell me that you're not going to die simply because you don't possess a certain game," Prowl sighed. At the dismissive response both of them whined, their expressions growing watery. _

_Damn his emotions to the Pit; he was growing soft. _

_"Fine." Ignoring their cheers of success, he quickly unsubspaced his wallet and tossed it down to the sharks circling below. It certainly felt like he was being antagonized by sharks, with the way their hungry gazes tracked the wallet as it fell into the child's hands. "But I expect a receipt, in addition to the money that you two spent!"_

"_Yeah, uh-huh. Got it." Not a little distractedly Sari answered, already pawing through the wad of paper money folded in the plain brown wallet. Bumblebee crouched behind her, optics wide as he likewise counted through the surprisingly generous tally that Prowl had saved up._

_Feeling their attention waning, Prowl half-snapped, "And don't forget to return it! You two are old enough and responsible enough to give it back under your own power, without me having to hunt you down to get it."_

"_Sure thing!"_

"_Will do!"_

_Their objective achieved, the dynamic duo fled from the room, already discussing at length what they intended to do with their new game. Watching them leave, Prowl had a brief suspicion that his stipulations were in one ear, out the other. Dismissing the sentiment, he settled more comfortably back into his earlier position._

* * *

The universe, he reflected with a sour frown, was unfair. No two ways about it.

"Y'know"—Jazz's accented voice was suddenly _right there_, right against the side of his face, and it took all of Prowl's willpower to not jump at the sensation—"ya could always let me pay for 'em instead."

"No, Jazz," Prowl dismissed. Still frowning severely, he dug deeper into subspace, praying to Primus that there was at least one dollar, just _one_ pitiful little leaflet to his name that had by some miracle fallen out. He brushed aside weapons and personal possessions. Each sweep through his inventory only sent his hopes plummeting when he realized that he didn't have any means to pay for it.

At last admitting defeat, the Praxian turned apologetically to the cashier. With a herculean effort he shelved his pride. "I'm sorry. I currently don't have the necessary funds to pay for these." A hand reached out, resting atop the small pile he intended to return. "My apologies for wasting your time. I'll—"

"Let my friend pay for these instead," a cheerful voice interrupted. With zero warning Jazz was pressed nearly flank-to-flank with him, one hand depositing his literary terrors alongside Prowl's books, another deftly plucking Prowl's hand away. Denta bared in a roguish grin, the Elite Guard brushed the sputtering Prowl out of his way and slapped the eighteenth, seventeenth, and seventh U.S. Presidents on the counter.

Smugly, the saboteur crowed, "There. That ought t' cover th' expenses."

Debbie gave a slow confused blink and gaped at the seventy-five dollars, yet refused to touch them. Not very quietly, the employee muttered, "For aliens, you guys are sure rich."

Jazz smirked. "We make Jabba the Hutt look dirt poor," he assured. The reference flew over Prowl's head, though behind them he heard two or three humans snicker at the name.

"Really," he said, and turned to subject Jazz to the full brunt of his stare. "I told you, I don't need you to pay for me."

"Actually, it kinda looks like ya do."

"Let me rephrase, then." Arms crossed firmly over his chestplate. "I don't _want _you to pay for me, Jazz. I am completely fine with returning them until I can retrieve my wallet and make the purchase on a separate date."

"Don't be stubborn," Jazz groaned. Exasperation tinged the static in his voice. "Primus, ya can jus' pay me back or somethin'." Suddenly, the glass band over his optics brightened. With a slow halfstep toward him, he offered in a low purr, "An' if ya don' got th' cash, I can always think of other ways for ya t' repay me. We'll jus' call it an I.O.U for now, an' work our way from there. What'cha say?"

Was Jazz seriously doing this to him? Right then, right _now_, in _public _nonetheless? Barely holding back his seethe of raw frustration, Prowl drew himself upright, nearly nose-to-nose with the broadly grinning sports car. "Knock it off," he ordered, only to stop himself before he continued. Primus, was that really him speaking just now? Vocalizer set to its lowest setting, tone nothing more than a soft, strained growl? Forcibly adjusting the register to a higher octave, Prowl cleared his throat once and put a safe amount of distance between them. "Look, you're not obligated to assist me just because we're comrades. It isn't a hassle to return tomorrow—"

"Can you just shut up already and either pay for the books or get out of line?" someone from nearby snapped.

The effect was similar to someone dumping water on his frame. Gone was all desire to argue, left with a growing sense of horror. Like a scene out of a movie, the two mechs turned their helms to the right.

Steadily trailing off behind them was a line of no less than a dozen humans, each regarding them with mixed amounts of annoyance, boredom, or amusement. The one who had barked the question was a grizzled old man, donning short, clipped gray hair and a stubbly beard.

Just as Prowl opened his mouth to apologize, Debbie came to her own decision. Before either party could act the woman reached over and took the money, ringing up the remaining books and attaching them to Prowl's purchase. Her incredulous look at each of Jazz's books caused a different part of his spark shrivel up and die.

At last the torturous procedure was over, a bag hastily shoved toward a triumphant-looking Jazz. Lips pursed, the employee frowned up at Jazz and declared, "Your change is thirty eight—"

"Keep th' change." Ignoring her startled expression, Jazz plucked the bag off the counter. Ice ran through his fluids as Jazz turned, beaming at him like ten thousand watts of evil. "Ya did me a favor, so it's th' least I can do."


	2. Hook, Line, Sinker

**Author's Note**: You know, _Mr. Sensitivity _was originally supposed to be a one-shot. Only every time I hit the backspace key the computer magically made more words appear. It got to the point where I eventually said, "Damn it. If I don't split it up, I won't get this posted until I'm thirty." So now you have this fun little two-shot. And then that's it, I swear, I'm done!

**Disclaimer**: You ever get the feeling that you're at some sort of AA group every time you have write a disclaimer? Y'know, like when everyone sits in a circle and says, "Hi, my name's Bob, and I don't own insert franchise here"? Yeah. Exactly like that. Only a helluva lot more annoying.

**Warnings**: This is the chapter we've all been waiting for. A drumroll, if you please! Enjoy my first-ever attempt at writing hardcore smut!

**Summary**: Ulterior motives can sometimes be more dangerous that Decepticon plots. And books always make the best aphrodisiacs.

* * *

Chapter Two: **Hook, Line, Sinker**

"Pull over."

As soon as the bag found its way into the questionable safety of Jazz's hands, Prowl had walked (read: ran like a little wuss) out of the store and commenced transformation. No sooner had he slipped into his alt mode that Jazz came skipping out of the building, a pleasant smile on his. Likewise the white mech had transformed and let Prowl take the lead, content to silently follow behind him in traffic.

Time to put an end to that.

"Is there a problem?" inquired Jazz, pulling up alongside the curb with his bumper brushing against Prowl's rear wheel. His engine gave a gentle rev, the vibrations passing between their two frames in a way that wasn't entirely unpleasant. The black-and-gold ninja responded with a far more irritated rev before cutting the engine. If Jazz could take a hint then he certainly didn't show it, preferring to continue idling behind him.

"Those books," he clarified, not willing to specify which.

"I dunno, Prowl," he drawled. "We bought a lot of books. Kinda hard t' remember which you're talkin' 'bout. Refresh my memory, won't ya?"

"You know damn well which ones I am referring to, Jazz!" Prowl snapped. To his chagrin the other ninja only laughed.

"Ooh, I made ya curse! I wonder what else I can make ya do…" As if to test his theory the silver mech deliberately pushed the nose of his alt mode against his rear wheel. A whoosh of warm air sighed out of his grill, fogging the metal on Prowl's rotors; pure _heat_ contrasting with the cold alloy.

"This is no time for your games." Instead of giving Jazz the reaction he wanted so badly Prowl held his ground. A mistake on his part, because it only seemed to encourage the Elite Guard more. It took all of his resolve to not flinch as Jazz continued to softly vent against his tire.

"'Course not," he said condescendingly. "Besides, if this were a game then I'd be winnin'."

"Rather presumptuous on your part."

"Not assumption, _fact_," his companion clarified in a voice that oozed smugness. "History stands t' reason that no one's managed t' keep up, let alone beat me." There was a sudden shift in his tone as the sports car idled, his vocalizer dropping a register to something deeper. Sultrier. "Think you're up t' th' challenge?"

_What a loaded question indeed_.

A tense silence lapsed between the two vehicles.

"Another time, perhaps," the motorcycle finally answered. It wasn't a question he felt ready to address when he was still trying to learn the rules of whatever game it was that Jazz wanted to play. Especially when he didn't know what would happen if he failed to emerge the victor.

A contemplative purr rumbled from Jazz's engine. "I'll hold ya to it."

"Feel free to believe in whatever delusions you want, if it helps you recharge at night. Now if you're quite done changing topics," Prowl sharply said, "there's still the matter of those books. And don't be deliberately obtuse," he snapped, avoiding that particular pitfall from earlier before Jazz could get a wisecrack out. "I don't want you to have them in my home."

He could all but hear the Elite Guard raise an optic ridge. "An' what makes ya think that I'm goin' back t' th' base?"

"Because where else would you be?" Prowl pointed out flatly. "I'd be more concerned if I _didn't_ find you there."

"Ya know, I'm not sure if I should be insulted by that remark or flattered that ya care so much."

_Be insulted_.

"What I _care_ about are those books floating around the base and, Primus forbid, ending up in Sari's hands," retorted Prowl. "I need not remind you that she is a child, and by no stretch of even _your_ broad imagination are those books appropriate for an eight-year-old. The last thing she needs to see is a…" He found himself trailing off uncomfortably.

"What?" Jazz prompted, not sharing any of his reservations in the slightest. "Ya mean you're worried she might see a giant, pulsating spike?" All but rocking on his axles in glee, he blithely continued despite Prowl's sputtering. "No, wait, that ain't th' right word. What do th' humans call their equipment? A peni―"

"That," the dark ninja growled with finality, "is quite enough."

"What? Afraid of a lil' word?" the saboteur taunted. "I thought ya were th' one who liked words, what with all th' books ya bought."

"The books _you_ bought," he corrected him.

"Same dif."

A quick glance at his chronometer had Prowl sinking on his tires in dismay. Ten minutes. They'd been sitting there debating for _ten minutes_.

And damn him, Jazz knew what he was doing. It was something that Prowl vehemently did not want to acknowledge or give the mech credit for―that he certainly had his own…unique…way with words. And right now his companion was using said skill, looking for crevices in his walls, places where he could get in and go wild. Being fairly adept at wordplay and verbal parrying himself, he was beginning to recognize the patterns, and mentally cursed himself for his folly. What made it sting all the worse was the there was the inescapable truth pouring off of Jazz's lips: he _did_ like words. Diving into battles of the mind, clashing like titans at war with an adversary who could not only survive the collision but come out at the end smirking from the exhilaration.

It scared him just how deeply he had let himself get drawn in.

Girding his loins (so to speak), Prowl exhaled deeply. It was time to fall back on his trump card. "You like technicalities? Fine. I can do technicalities." Ominously the motorcycle rumbled, "While I am in no position to order you to leave those books behind, I know someone who is. If you're still uncertain as to whether or not they're appropriate to have around then I can get a second opinion. I'm sure _Optimus_ would love to have a say in the matter." He made sure his comm. line could be heard crackling to life.

Message received. Jazz finally backed down with a lighthearted, if not nervous, laugh. Rather than the sullen sulk Prowl had expected, the silver 'bot sounded impressed. "Alright, alright," he appeased him. "I give. Now, lemme make sure I got this straight―I'm not allowed t' have 'em on the base, right?"

"On the base _plus_ a mile," Prowl deadpanned. "With you I'd rather not take any chances. It would be prudent to cover all of my bases."

"No pun intended?" Jazz ventured, and only after the words had left his vocalizer did Prowl understand what the Elite Guard was getting at.

If he hadn't been in his alt mode he might have smiled.

Instead, the gold-black vehicle gave a short rev and kickstarted his engine. His systems rumbled to life, adding on to the steady thrum of the engine behind him. "If we're done here, then I'd like to move out."

Unperturbed by his clipped tone, Jazz chirped back at him, "Whatever ya say, Prowler!"

Just ignore it.

Just ignore it.

It was just a nickname. A crude, unsavory nickname. He could learn to live with it.

Lesser evil and all that.

Yet as the sports car whooshed past him with a whoop of glee, "Race ya t' th' intersection!" and liberally coating him in a cloud of exhaust, Prowl found himself reconsidering.

Oh, he had no doubts that he could learn to live with it.

How long that would take was another matter entirely.

* * *

Just as Prowl expected, he found them where he'd left them, rear ends firmly glued to the sofa and eyes taking on the vapid mistiness one would expect from ten-plus hours of staring at a TV screen. Empty Cheeto bags and drained cubes littered the ground at their feet, a testimony to how long they had spent selling their souls to that damned game.

It was almost sad. Almost.

With calm, measured steps the black-gold mech crossed in several strides and planted himself directly in front of the screen, making sure to block as much of the visual feed as possible. There was a moment of delayed reaction on their part as they continued to mash the buttons until it occurred to them that no, Connor hadn't swapped out his Assassins' robes for Spartan armor. Which meant that the pissed-off looking blockage in front of the TV was real.

"Oi! Down in front!" Bumblebee snapped. He pointed the TV remote directly at his chassis and repeatedly tapped the play button, as if hitting it enough times would force reality to spontaneously bend to his will. "How are we supposed to kick Templar aft if _your _aft is in the way?"

"My aft," Prowl intoned, trying to valiantly ignore Sari's giggle, "has spent the better part of the afternoon trying to figure out where my wallet went." That certainly wiped the indignant looks off their faces. An open palm was held out expectantly.

"Oops," Sari mumbled, ducking her head sheepishly. Meanwhile the yellow scout began digging the wallet out of subspace with no small amount of grumbling. "Sorry, Prowl. We got so excited about the game that we…forgot," she finished, a tad lamely.

Unimpressed silence followed.

"Well, it could've been worse, right? I mean, not returning your wallet is better than having one us trip and it landing in a cement mixer or something."

No response.

"Or have it get stolen."

She was rewarded with a slow, agonized blink.

"Oh come on, you gotta give me something! How about an army of howler monkeys copiously weeing all over it?"

"I think the only reaction you're gonna get out of him is angry and über angry," Bumblebee remarked, with those words summing up every ounce of non-respect he had for authority. He beamed at Prowl like a jack-o-lantern with a TNT candlestick, his sulkiness forgotten now that it seemed Prowl would be leaving.

Prowl had every intention of stamping out that little hope.

He stayed rooted to the spot, one optic ridge delicately arched at the pair, arms folding across his chest. "Repeat after me: 'I will return anything I borrow back to its owner from now on.'"

Mutinous looks accompanied the rigid postures they now bore. No doubt they were trying to decide whether or not he was kidding. Only when Prowl's expectant silence began to drag out did they realize that there wasn't an opt-out system for them to happily exploit.

"Yes, Mom," Sari drawled, with no shortage of sarcasm. Bumblebee, as fate would have it, needed a little more convincing.

"Just because I'm painted like a parrot doesn't mean I'm gonna start repeating everything you say. Polly's gonna need a little more than a few crackers before he starts doing tricks."

Which was all fine and dandy, as far as Prowl was concerned. A tight smile flickered across his face as he shuffled back a step and ceremoniously wrapped a hand around the cable connecting their precious Xbox to the outlet. Teenage self-righteousness went to doormat-submission like the flip of a switch.

"_I will return anything I borrow back to its owner from now on_." Following the dragged-out chorus were identical grimaces, as if the two had been forced to swallow something bitter. Like their pride.

"I will not wait until the last second and inconvenience the lender in the process."

"_I will not wait until the last second and inconvenience the lender in the process_. How long do we have to keep this up?" muttered the scout under his breath.

Sari's gaze darted toward her accomplice, no doubt wondering the same. "Until the auto-save kicks in."

"Or a knight in shinin' armor comes along t' slay th' dragon," a new voice chirped from the nearby doorway. Out of the corner of his optics Prowl saw Jazz saunter forward, shaking his head back and forth. "Ya know, I'm not sure if this is funny or pathetic. Hmm. Lemmee think 'bout that." He strode up to Prowl's side, ignoring the way the other ninja shivered a little at the proximity, and studiously surveyed the pair. "Nope. Still pathetic."

"If you don't mind, Jazz"—the black-gold mech pressed his lips together in disapproval and shot his pseudo-friend a dark look—"I'm currently in the middle of explaining to them why _failing to return another's property_ is bad."

The accused flinched.

"What? You're still sore 'bout that? Relax, Prowler—"

"_'Prowler'?_" Sari whispered.

"—I said it was no big deal." He flashed Prowl a cherubic smile and swung his arms back and forth, looking eerily like a kid in a candy shop. "By th' way, I put your books in your quarters for ya."

"Thanks," came the grudging reply.

"Now, if you'll excuse me"—the spy scooted past and laid a hand firmly on Bumblebee's shoulder, yanking him to a stand with some considerable strength—"we've got some important business t' discuss. Y'know, hush hush an' all that. Secret Elite Guard stuff."

"Elite Guard?" That certainly got Bumblebee's attention.

A smile like poisoned honey made a briefest appearance on his silver faceplates before retreating from sight. "Oh yeah," Jazz assured him, all the while steering the scout by his shoulders toward the empty hall. He did so as he ignored Prowl's faint spluttering protest. "Don't worry, Napoleon, ya can have your trained parakeet back later."

"Hey!"

Before Prowl could protest, or argue, or at least ask him to take a slagging minute to explain himself, the pair had vanished.

With a tired sigh he relinquished his hold on his prisoner and backed away from the Xbox, much to Sari's (loud) delight. Figuring some mysteries were better left alone, tiredly the Autobot made to retreat in the opposite direction toward his quarters. His books were awaiting him, after all.

Besides, at least there he could barricade the door with furniture to keep Jazz out.

* * *

_"Don't shoot! Don't shoot! You'll piss him off."_

_"It's already pissed off!"_

_"Jake, that armor's too thick; trust me. It's a territorial threat display. Do not run or he'll charge."_

_"So what do I do? Dance with it?"_

Commotion in the middle of the night wasn't uncommon, whether it was Ratchet prowling about his medbay, working on some late-night project as he uttered dire threats under his breath, or Bulkhead suddenly craving an extra ration before recharge. In the time they'd spent on Earth Prowl had grown accustomed to some of his teammates' nocturnal tendencies, enough that the occasional noise no longer spooked him.

That being said, he felt predictably alarmed when the first thing he heard coming down the hall was the unmistakable roar of a _Tyrannosaurus rex_.

Insanely, for a moment the ninja thought Grimlock had decided to finally forsake Erie in favor of reenacting _Jurassic Park_ in the middle of Detroit. That thought was quickly banished with a self-depreciating snort. None of the Dinobots had ever displayed an interest in leaving North Sister Island (unless there was the prospect of Decepticon maiming involved), so the odds that they had deserted their post were laughably small.

All blame for that line of thinking was quickly pinned to a lack of rest and a rather long evening spent reading. It wasn't as if he had developed an acute paranoia in the last month from avoiding a certain saboteur. Absolutely not. Such notions were not to be contemplated.

Still, the noise was rather loud, demanding that he at least investigate and determine the source. With a nonexistent sigh he switched directions and backtracked down the hall, away from Energon dispenser room.

A ferocious-sounding bellow greeted the Autobot as he slipped into the rec room. Save for its single inhabitant the room was empty, no doubt abandoned in favor of catching up on recharge. Where Sari and Bumblebee had been earlier that day was a single streamlined figure, silhouetted by the glare of the TV screen. A glance at the TV showed a reptilian, panther-like animal chasing a blue humanoid, its screeches accompanied by a dramatic orchestral soundtrack blasting well past the 100-decibel marker.

Figures_ he_ would be behind it all.

"Jazz," greeted Prowl, in a trying-for-but-failing attempt at neutrality. The Elite Guard didn't even flinch at the stealthy approach, just craned his neck back over the sofa to watch him stop short behind the furniture. "May I remind you that we have rules regarding noise pollution in the base _for a reason?_"

Jazz merely offered him a smile as he smirked up at him, throat arched. "An' here I thought I was bein' quiet about th' whole affair. Didn't wake anybody, did I?"

"No," he conceded, however reluctantly, "but I don't want to chance the movie possibly disturbing somebody, given its…" Prowl paused to cast the TV a flat stare. "…_particular _soundtrack."

As if agreeing with him, a cacophony of barks and hisses blared from the TV. Both mechs turned to watch as the protagonist waved a torch at what looked like—and here Prowl paused to reboot his optics in mild surprise—six-limbed dogs. Even weirder was when one of them proceeded to extend its insectoid-like mandible.

"Viperwolves," Jazz clarified, as if he expected that to mean something to the culturally-deprived tactician. "Ya gotta give Cameron his dues for creatin' some of th' most badass-lookin' aliens in existence—with th' exception of myself, of course," he amended.

He wisely chose not to comment on that, and instead remained transfixed on the screen. "An alien watching a movie about aliens? How…original," Prowl remarked, the barest hint of dryness coloring his inflection.

"What can I say?" The white ninja gave a luxurious full-body stretch before he nestled back into the cushion. "_Avatar's _a great movie. Well-developed plot, excellent character arc, top-notch graphics …" Jazz let the words hang tantalizingly in the air. "Sure would be nice t' have some company t' enjoy it with me," he baited.

"Shouldn't you be in recharge?" Prowl sidestepped the invitation.

For a 'bot who chose to wear a visor Jazz did a decent job of giving the impression of rolling his optics. "Shouldn't you?"

The black-gold ninja slanted him a look out of the corner of his optics before returning to the screen. It afforded him the ability to hide the mounting tension he was starting to feel. No doubt Jazz would capitalize on it the moment he noticed; all the more reason to avoid eye contact. "I've been awake catching up on some reading. I only left my quarters now to fetch myself a drink."

"An' here ya are," Jazz said, faintly amused.

"And here I am."

A hand patted the space next to him with no small amount of exaggeration. "My invitation still stands."

"So does my request to have the volume lowered."

"Yeesh, fine." Mercifully the noise was reduced to non audio-damaging levels, to the point where Prowl could hear himself think again. "Still would be nice not t' be all by myself," Jazz crooned, casting his comrade a hopeful look. "Jus' you, me, an' some good ol' fashion movie-goin'. Look, I even warmed th' seat for ya!"

"How thoughtful of you," the other ninja deadpanned. Arms tucked behind his back, Prowl straightened and made to retreat, trying to ignore his gaze as the intensity of it burned strait into his spinal plates. "Unfortunately I'll have to decline. As I said before, I came to get myself Energon. I only detoured to investigate the noise. Now, if you'll excuse me—"

"Aww. Too bad," came the pleasant drawl from behind. "Guess I'll jus' have t' drink all of this _Energon _by myself. If _only_ I had someone t' share it with."

Prowl stopped.

On the one hand, it saved him the trouble of retracing his steps all the way to the other side of the warehouse. And if he was being honest with himself, the film had been fairly intriguing. On the other hand…

Jazz's Cheshire grin only widened as he lounged across the back of the sofa, smiling innocently back at the motorcycle. "Well…?"

It was more than nerves Prowl swallowed as he circled around the furniture and gingerly sat down beside him. "I will…keep you company for a short time. _Only _for a short time," he added sharply.

But the triumphant beam never left Jazz's face as he contented himself with his promise to stay. "Welcome t' th' party. Drink up," he purred, pressing a glowing bright blue cube into his hands.

"Don't parties usually constitute more than two individuals?" Even as he spoke Prowl dropped his helm to inhale the fumes, only to recoil at the unexpected potency of the brew. Definitely mid-grade, thought just toeing the line between high-grade. Nevertheless he took a deep draught from it.

Jazz's bright expression never strayed from the darker mech, going so far as to—dare he say?—look him up and down. His visor hastily snapped up to meet his stare head-on. Ever-cheerfully he chirped, "Naw. They don't have t'. S'long as th' 'bots involved are havin' a good time, that's all that matters. 'Sides..." Unease prickled across the back of his neck as the Elite Guard slid a hand behind his head, dangerously close to Prowl's shoulder guard. "Some parties tend t' be more _private_."

"Provided there aren't any ill-timed gatecrashers," the tactician pointed out, choosing to be deliberately obtuse to the double entendre. Instead his interest hastily was redirected toward the TV. A snippet of whatever language the characters were speaking caught his intrigue, and offered to redirect Jazz's attention from _other _topics. "What made you choose this film to watch?" A mix of genuine curiosity wormed its way into his voice.

"Huh." The question seemed to catch Jazz off guard. Idly a finger came up and tapped his bottom lip, not completely in a manner meant to look thoughtful. "Well," the sports car at last decided on, "as ya know, I work as one of Magnus' guardsmech. What a lot o' 'bots tend t' overlook though is that while I _do _fight, I'm a warrior _third_ and saboteur _second_. Mostly, I'm his cultural expert an' chief communicator. See, my primary function is t' help communicate between th' native cats an' us on whatever planet we happen t' hit up on our way through th' cosmos. It's sorta my job t' know th' local lingo. 'Sides," he added, gesturing toward the TV, "I _like_ this kinda stuff. Mostly th' music, which language is integral to. Ya dig?"

Of all the answers Prowl might have anticipated, the complexity and sincerity of Jazz's answer certainly wasn't one of them. _Then again, it explains a lot_, he noted, and there was the definite sensation of being suddenly blindsided by the realization when it sunk in. His fondness of music. His interest in human literature. His familiarity with all the pop-culture references that flew over Prowl's head.

Cube set aside on the floor, he regarded his partner with a considerate frown. "In hindsight that makes sense," Prowl murmured.

A lopsidede smile blossomed across the silver mech's faceplates. "Yep." He gave another flourish toward the screen. "Hence why I picked _Avatar_. I even decided t' indulge in my inner nerd a bit an' learn a bit of their language."

Curiosity piqued, Prowl shifted slightly to face him. "Say something."

Jazz canted his helm. "What? In Na'vi?"

"Yes."

"You certainly know how t' indulge me," he smirked, earning a subtle optic-roll from Prowl. He was too interested in hearing the fictional language to be bothered by Jazz's propositioning him. For now, anyway.

After a brief moment spent mulling over his options, the silver 'bot cleared his vents and spoke: "_Nga yawne lu oer_."

Prowl tilted his head to the side. While on-screen the language had certainly sounded captivating, in real-time, hearing it spoken before him only amplified its exoticness. For a few kliks the only noise in the room was the movie ("_Don't do anything unusually stupid_") as the two mechs watched each other, absorbed in the conversation.

Finally the motorcycle caved: "What did you say?"

"I said you're ugly an' ya have no sense of humor."

A snort. "Somehow I doubt that," Prowl scoffed, fighting against the smile trying to cross his face.

"Oh yeah, you're right: I forgot t' include 'penniless' in there. Gotta make sure t' fix that," Jazz crowed, full-out grinning at him. The arm still behind his helm shifted slightly toward his neck as the white mech dared to scoot closer. Testing the boundaries.

Some of the good mood evaporated. Stifling a low cough in his vocalizer, Prowl hastened to steer their conversation back into safer waters, all the while aware of how close Jazz's frame was to his. A hint of nervousness crept into his tone, which he tried desperately to stamp out. "What else about the film intrigues you?"

Light flashed across the dark blue visor so close to his face. "Oh, lots of things." The hand not currently occupied with inching toward Prowl's shoulders reached over a thigh to grab the remote. "Th' witty dialogue. Th' epic soundtrack." Fast-forward was selected and the scenes raced by in leaps and bounds, too quick for Prowl to make out anything intelligible. "But I think what I like best"—he clicked play—"is all th' similarities between us an' them when it comes t' gettin' down an' dirty."

A sort of horrified speechlessness swept over the gold-black ninja as he watched the two characters writhe together, their upright bodies grasping and groping with wanton abandon. Accompanying the frantic motions were the breathy exhales, gasps, and groans of one who was close to reaching that delicious high. He thanked Primus there was at least that willowy tree obscuring some of the view. Not that the lack of visual stopped his imagination from filling in the gaps as he heard rather than saw their coupling.

"They're a lot like us in that they use their ponytail-things t' form a bond—_t__saheylu_—in addition t' havin' equipment below th' belt," Jazz casually said, as if they _weren't _watching a pair of blue monkey people getting it on.

Sandwiched by the frame just hovering over his and the sofa, he found a very unpleasant detail making itself known. With a dawning horror Prowl felt a surge of heat pool between his legs, an unwilling response to the noise and visuals on the TV. The proximity to Jazz did nothing to help as his body latched onto that fact and renewed the burn with a fresh wave of arousal. Suddenly the awareness that it had been well over several hundred vorns since his last interface seated itself smack in his pelvic complex.

Claustrophobia and a deep-seated panic had him glaring with laserpoint-intensity at Jazz as he demanded, "Turn it off now."

Jazz gazed back with practiced innocence. "Why? Somethin' th' matter—?"

"I said _turn it off now!_"

Throwing composure to the wind Prowl lunged at Jazz, grasping for the remote as if his life depended on it. Easily enough the spy pulled back, laughing as he did so. With a snarl of frustration Prowl made another lunge, struggling to clamber over the white Autobot's broad shoulders and snatch his prize. Jazz merely gave a breathy laugh as he batted him away.

Despite both being eloquent fighters, their spar was reduced to a force-come-force-win wrestling match on the tiny sofa. With each flail, with each fervent effort Prowl could feel victory slipping away between his fingers. In the end Jazz managed to turn the fight, his completed training allowing him to finally pin Prowl to the sofa. He ended up straddling Prowl's waist, one leg on either side as his palms firmly pressed against his chestplate. During their tussle Jazz had ruled in favor of tossing aside the remote in order to better dominate his opponent. Both panted, cycling air hard through their systems, cooling fans spinning fast to keep up with their overheated bodies.

A long growl vibrated up from his throat as Prowl glared up at him. He could acutely feel the pressure between his legs, demanding release, and more than anything he wished it would just go the slag away. Better yet, have a hole magically open up beneath him so he could disappear. If only so he didn't have to look into the overbright visor now inches from his face.

Somewhere in the middle of their fight the TV had turned off, likely when the remote had hit the ground. Save for the glow of their optics the warehouse was bathed in darkness.

A long, breathy gasp rolled through Jazz as his grip shifted ever-so-slightly, to better dig his fingertips into a crevice in his armor. Then, of all the things he could have said, he settled on the last thing Prowl had expected to hear: "It took ya long enough, didn't it?"

In the midst of his stupefaction and fighting to slow his pulse, Prowl could only gasp out, "What?"

"Said, took ya long enough." A slight shift in position caused their hips to brush tantalizingly close. It took all his willpower to not rock his body upward in a reflexive plea for more. "Spend a month tryin' t' figure out how t' get ya t' open up, an' turns out all I had t' do was wave a book in front of your face t' get your attention."

"I…what?" Prowl breathed, not quite comprehending.

A hint of fond exasperation fleetingly crossed Jazz's faceplates before he grunted. The heat pouring off his armor was from more than just their sparring session. "Been wantin' t' talk t' ya 'bout this for a while now. Tried, but ya kept avoidin' me. Couldn't figure out how t' actually 'proach ya, 'cause every time I worked up th' nerve, th' words jus' kept soundin' wrong in my head."

Now a touch frustrated, Prowl barked, "What are you talking about, Jazz?"

"This!" Jazz exclaimed, and to emphasize his point rocked their bodies together. Their panels ground together, the friction causing them both to simultaneously gasp. "..._This_, Prowl. _This_ is what I'm talkin' about."

Realization hit with the impacting of a speeding Peterbilt. "You're attracted to me?" Prowl finally worked out.

"Yes," the Elite Guard rasped. "Primus, _yes_. It only took ya 'til now t' figure it out. Only had t' use _props_ t' get your CPU thinkin' in th' right direction."

Unbidden, Prowl's legs flexed, hooking his ankles around Jazz's thighs, damn near fighting the urge to lift them all the way and wrap them around his waist. "Is that all you want from me?" he wondered, allowing the hurt to bleed into his voice. Had all of Jazz's attempts to spend time together, all of his attempts to forge a friendship that try as he might Prowl couldn't resist, been to simply frag him? "Is all you want an interface from me?"

"What? Pit, no!" Now it was Jazz's turn to look insulted. A blazing blue visor stared unflinchingly down at him as he shook his head. "I want a _relationship_ with ya. If I wanted an overload I could'a just fragged myself!"

Assaulted by the sudden confluence of emotions Prowl snapped his optics shut. This couldn't be happening. It simply felt too unreal. Yet there he was, venting hard under the saboteur as his panels fought him to slide open for the entire world to see. Was Jazz being truly honest? Had he really been pursuing him for the past four weeks, and Prowl—with his socially-retarded processor—been that blind? It certainly seemed like a possibility, given his less-than-stellar emotional capacity on that particular front.

Yet something still wasn't adding up, was still holding him back. With a rattling breath the motorcycle blinked up that the rigid body pressed atop his own, restraining itself as much as his was. A pleading hope shone from the depths of his visor as Jazz watched him intently. And as he shakily stared back, it suddenly occurred to Prowl how much the mech was gambling by taking this risk. All the camaraderie, all the solid companionship, all the mental debates they waged daily with each other—wagered in a single decision. While the whirlwind of emotions was certainly unseating, Prowl couldn't even imagine how _scared _Jazz must have been feeling with the knowledge that if this went badly, the brief friendship he had worked so hard toward could shatter.

"Why?" Prowl steeled himself enough to ask. "Why _me?_"

A pained smile formed on his face as Jazz inhaled sharply. "'Cause you're _amazing_," he breathed. "Ya can't see it th' way I can, but holy Primus, ya got no idea what'cha do t' me. Ya realize you're one of th' first few Cyber-Ninjas—a legit ninja—I've seen in years? Doesn't matter if your training ain't done. You _understand me_," the Elite Guard whispered. A shuddering groan rolled through his torso as Jazz visibly fought the urge to grind into him. "Ya have an appreciation for th' finer things in life, th' lil' details that no one else can see. Ya value intellect an' hard work. You're genuinely kind, unlike _Sentinel_," he spat, in a momentary flare of vehemence. "I…" Jazz swallowed, his face searching his. "When ya first started tryin' t' avoid me, I felt _lost_. I got scared. I didn't want ya t' not be in my life."

A single hand vacated Prowl's chest. White knuckles gently brushed across his cheek, and Prowl leaned into the touch with a shiver.

"Ya don't have t' say yes," Jazz assured, despite the way his lips twisted in objection to the words' very utterance. "But I really hope you'd consider givin' me a chance. But say th' word, an' I'll back off for good. I promise."

A heavy silence settled between them.

For a long moment Prowl's finely-tuned mind ran through the possibilities, weighing the outcomes. And every time his mind kept coming back to the same conclusion—not the logical one.

_The spark-driven one_.

"…Yes," Prowl gasped out. In a mirror of the mech above him a hand reached out to lightly caress below the rim of the visor. It positively _burned_ to touch. "I would not object to a relationship with you."

A boisterous, albeit shaky laugh of relief erupted from Jazz. "H-Hey, what do ya know, I wouldn't object either!"

Once the laugh sputtered out into the last few chuckles it left the two of them there, in the dark, nearly trembling in arousal. With agonizing slowness Jazz leaned in, their nasal ridges brushing together as he took a klik to nuzzle him. One of his rare smiles briefly made itself known as Prowl trailed a palm down the contours of Jazz's cheek, pausing only once he'd grasped his chin. The touch seemed to dispel what reserves of self-control Jazz had left, and he wasted no time in closing the gap between them in a firm kiss.

The gold-black mech couldn't bite back the groan of arousal as he responded in kind. Dark lips brushed across Jazz's in an answering touch before moving more firmly against his, needy. Jazz, evidently not one to refuse such an obvious invitation, reciprocated. Faintest brush of glossa was the only warning Prowl had before the 'bot above him started sucking hard on his bottom lip. The intensity nearly had his optics rolling back in his helm.

Only when he felt a hand drifting across his abdomen did their_ location_ break through his lust-induced haze.

"Jazz," Prowl panted. "Jazz, we have to stop."

A whimper answered him as Jazz reluctantly pulled back, enough that he could still speak without completely breaking contact. "What? Why?"

A flicker of annoyance flashed through him. "We're in the _rec room_, Jazz. Anyone could walk through here and see us."

To his surprise Jazz pulled back, enough for Prowl to see the impish, dark grin unfolding across his faceplates. "Trust me, Prowler," he soothed, "no they ain't. I personally saw t' that."

"What do you mean?"

Somehow the grin stretched even wider. Prowl was amazed it hadn't broken his face. The fingers on his torso resumed their kneading as Jazz flippantly said, "Oh, y'know, nothin' too big. I might or might not have paid off Bumblebee t' make sure that no one 'accidentally' wanders in tonight."

"'Paid him off'?" Prowl echoed in disbelief. It took quite a bit of effort to concentrate when those too-talented-they-must-have-been-illegal hands were caressing his waist. "With what? You spent all your money at the store today, remember?"

"The books," Jazz declared with complete aplomb.

The books? What books—

Oh.

_Those_ books.

Wait.

"You mean to tell me," the Praxian began quietly, "that you used the books that I _expressly forbade_ you from bringing onto our base as _bribe material?_"

At least Jazz had the graces to look sheepish. "Um, yes?"

Prowl simply gaped.

"Hey, in my own defense," he interjected, before the black-gold mech could work himself up into what truly would have been an impressive rant, "ya said _I_ wasn't allowed t' have 'em on base. Ya never said anythin' about someone else."

"Yes," Prowl groused out, "silly me for forgetting that you were an _extortionist _who took advantage of _every slagging loophole_ he could get his hands on."

"An' th' loopholes that don't exist, t' be fair," Jazz pointed out sweetly. "I'm a saboteur, Prowler. I wouldn't be doin' my job if I didn't take advantage of th' technicalities. Not my fault if ya weren't specific enough. Now"—his face loomed a fraction closer—"I do believe I was about t' help ya take care of something?"

His body eagerly perked up at the sultry promise in those words, taking the wind out of his sails as well. He could let it slide just this once.

Long legs twined around slender hips as Prowl's lips hovered barely out of reach. "I do believe you were."

"Well, I'd hate t' disappoint."

Silver lips crushed against his with zeal, hungrily devouring. A sparkfelt moan drifted between them, and Prowl had a difficult time discerning who it came from. At the same token he couldn't bring himself to care as hands began to drift anew, trailing lines of conflagration in their wake. Zero hesitation in him yielding beneath the heavier mech, mouth parting beneath his. A deep growl surfaced in response as Jazz plunged his glossa inside. Languidly they tangled together, breathing hard through side vents. In a sudden desire to dominate Jazz broke off and nudged his partner's helm back with his chin. Prowl complied, and sucked in a sharp breath, only to then hiss in pleasure as Jazz began suckling at the juncture of his audio and neck. A hand shot out to press against the back of the Elite Guard's helm.

"Please," came the husky rasp. "_Don't stop_."

A sharp keen left his lips as Jazz bit down on the cabling in answer. The cry dissolved into a ragged groan as he laved the tender spot to ease the sting. Without warning the suckling picked up again, hard and fast against the pulse point in his throat.

Eager to pick up the pace, Prowl let his hands drift, cataloging and mapping out the various overlapping slates of armor he encountered. An appreciative noise rumbled from Jazz's throat as his palms skated down his back. Another agonized grunt left the white 'bot as deft fingers wormed into a gap and began to rhythmically massage the thick muscular cords underneath.

Silver hips rocked down, leaving fine contrasts of the opposite paint from the friction. While normally such a detail would have bothered him, Prowl had a hard time caring about his usual OCD-cleanliness as his frame arched up. Delicious heat coursed through every neural circuit. The powerful throb behind his codpiece had his hips jerking up beneath Jazz's, grinding in abandon.

"That's it," grunted the 'bot above him. "Let me _show _ya how I feel."

Oh, he certainly had no intention of refusing that offer. Not when every thrust had him driving his pelvis upward in a silent plea for release.

Release that Jazz was only too happy to give as he slithered down Prowl's frame and pinned down his hips.

Gritting his denta he bucked, voice dissolving into a needy whimper when he felt the agile flick of a glossa against his codpiece. Above him Jazz panted hard, each exhale fogging the tan metal as he roughly tongued the thin panel separating him from his soon-to-be lover. The Elite Guard continued to mouth across its surface as he spread Prowl's legs. Hands on his knees, pushing them up.

There was little hesitation, only a desire to ease the throbbing ache in his crotch as his legs folded of their own according with the coaxing pressure of the saboteur's hands. A final kiss finally forced the panel to retract of its own volition, a tiny _snick _that could be heard over the dual whine of their systems that seemed deafeningly loud in the dark room. Free from confinement, his spike proudly rose to stab the air while a rush of lubricant slicked across his puckered valve.

Visor and optics met.

"Ya sure ya want this?" Jazz rumbled. A phantom caress ghosted across his stiff spike at the sudden speech, causing it to tremble faintly.

Unexpectedly touched by the concern, Prowl smiled, however briefly, as the pressure in his interfacing equipment caused the smile to taper off into an excited hiss. He nodded. "Y-Yes." A deep swallow accompanied the admission. "Yes, I do. Am I to take it you want the same?"

An unexpected jerk on his spike as a hand roughly caressed it caused him to cry out.

Jazz's face leaned closer, expression predatory and voice _gloriously arousing_. "Does that answer your question?"

No time was wasted on further words as the hand wrapped around his cable pumped away.

His body shuddered and writhed with each steady upward drag. Jazz seemed to have a streak of curiosity about him, as he experimented with varying pressures and squeezes on the sensitive metal. A tug here, a quick jerk there. In a moment of randomness his hand abandoned the series of strokes, only to rest a thumb on the spade-shaped head. With a soft sigh the Elite Guard began massaging the narrow slit.

A throaty keen spilled out from the black-gold mech as his frame arched off the sofa.

Laughing, Jazz navigated his unoccupied hand to Prowl's abdomen and pressed down. "Easy," he said. Though the rough grate in his voice betrayed his own growing need for release. "I'll get t' that. Relax."

Another torturous stroke over the tip elicited a strangled gasp. "You're taking your time," he accused.

"I'm in no hurry."

There was a tinny, static quality to the mech's voice as pumped away. Contrary to what he'd said, Jazz was no less affected by the steadily climbing heat between them. And as his own hips started to actively grind against Prowl's calf, as the tempo on his spike picked up, Prowl knew Jazz was just as desperate to end this as he was.

The tension coiled tighter, a hard pool of want settling low in his belly. Now each pump ended in a sharp cry as the fingers slid up and down his erection. Beads of condensation clung to his armor as his cooling fans spun wildly, no longer able to keep up with his frame's speed. With a final shout he climaxed, overload tearing through his redlining systems with each dizzying pulse. The hand on his spike didn't slow as viscous spurts of transfluid erupted from the slit. Only as the intensity began to ebb and the last trickles of fluid spilled out did Jazz gentle his pace. A content smile curled his lips as his fingers stroked the now-softening member, easing Prowl back to reality. Through half-shuddered optics Prowl watched as the silver mech appreciatively studied the copious mess on his hand.

"_Wow_," Jazz at last breathed. "That was intense."

Prowl rolled his head back against the cushion and vented deeply. "That would be the understatement of the century."

"Glad I was able t' blow your mind. Among other things," the saboteur purred. A subtle tilt of his chin cast pale blue light across the rather…explosive mess still adorning his abdomen, and Jazz's hand. While he was by no stretch of the imagination prudish, outside the heat of the moment it was mildly uncomfortable, to say the least. Reminded all too abruptly of the stickiness Prowl gave a slight squirm, determined Jazz not see the embarrassment clouding his optics.

Too bad Jazz was _programmed _to be perceptive.

"Hey." Before he could recline back a hand reached forward and cupped his chin, forcing Prowl to stare into his visor. "No need t' get all ashamed in front'a me. So it's been a while. Big deal." A bright smile curled across his handsome features. "I'd be lyin' if I said that wasn't th' most erotic thing I've seen in a while."

A light snort. "Glad I could be of assistance."

"Well, now that ya mention it, if ya _really_ wanna be of assistance…" A shiver rattled through his white armor as Jazz tugged one of Prowl's darker hands across his own codpiece. "Hot as it was watchin' ya get off, I'd really love t' frag ya senseless right 'bout now."

_That_ was definitely something he could get behind.

Nodding, Prowl scooted forward, lightly pressing their chests together. At the contact their personal magnetic fields flared, the interplay of their harmonics sending a fresh wave of lust through them. An earnest groan tumbled free from Jazz's vocalizer. Not a part of Prowl didn't thoroughly enjoy the feel of the broader 'bot pressing into his touch. Fingertips glided across the panel in a series of light pressures as he rubbed.

With a near-inaudible _click_ the panel slid back, emitting a rather engorged spike. His own valve gave a wistful twitch at the sight, renewing the trickle of lubricant moistening the apex of his thighs. Spark fluttering in his chassis, Prowl slid down, bringing his faceplates level with the quivering equipment bared for him. Equal parts nervous and excited, he carefully palmed the base before sliding his lips around the head.

Ragged pants fell from Jazz's lips as he tilted his head back.

Pleased, Prowl sucked at the head, then moved gradually down the length, stopping every few inches to apply hot suction. Fingers scrabbled along his spinal plates as Jazz unconsciously thrust up into the slick mouth encasing him. Only when his nasal ridge was pressed flush to his groin did the Praxian pull back to the tip, then slide forward again.

A frantic keen answered the wave-like motions across his spike. Prowl could hear, feel, _taste_, even, how much the Elite Guard was enjoying himself. Limbs spasmed against his frame as Jazz resisted the urge to bow, and instead tried to keep rhythm with his movements. Electricity charged the air around them, saturating it in a thick, damp blanket of desire.

Hands on his helm gently urged Prowl back. A wet _pop_ followed as his mouth was pulled free of the sinfully thick spike.

"Need t' be ready," gasped Jazz by way of explanation. Already the white ninja was pushing Prowl onto his back and resettling between his legs, no longer nearly as composed as he'd once been. Air whooshed from his vents as Jazz dipped his faceplates toward his valve, banishing what little confusion Prowl had held.

_Oh_.

Shaking digits pressed forward and gently explored the outer folds before Prowl could speak up. The beginnings of his sentence broke off on a moan as his lover tested the area; making sure it was slick for a smooth penetration.

"_Jazz!_"

"Not wet enough," the ninja grunted. "Don't wanna hurt ya, babe. Gotta get ya ready."

And without further adieu Jazz began to lap at his valve.

It took incredible strength of will to not scream aloud for the entire base to hear. Steady lapping against the smooth folds gave way to deep kissing as Jazz leaned in, lips meshing in blissful strokes against his valve. Lubricant all but gushed from the tight opening as Jazz worked deeper, pressing inside.

"Please!" he pleaded.

Fortunately Jazz had reached his limit with the foreplay.

With a grunt he pulled himself up Prowl's frame, armor squealing as he climbed unsteadily up to meet him. For a moment he simply levered himself over his head with an outstretched arm and stared, mouth open and visor shining. A deep stare matched him as Prowl bucked, wanting, needing, craving his attention.

Helm bowed, Jazz brushed their foreheads together—an intimate gesture that predated kissing—before finally lowering his frame. The sudden sensation of being filled caught Prowl off guard, causing a desperate whine to crackle from his vocalizer as he tried to chase and escape the feelings. After an agonizing second Jazz was fully seated, the pulsating, hard pressure throbbing against his inner walls. His valve squeezed over the length, refitting itself around his girth.

Jazz pressed a hot kiss to his neck, waiting for him to be ready.

Stars streaked past his optics as Prowl lifted his hips in entreaty. The buck only slid the spike in deeper, striking sensitive nodes as it buried itself in the impossibly tight heat. Likewise Jazz growled and rolled his hips, pulling out until just the tip remained inside. Then came the inevitable plunge back in, a slow, heavy glide across sensors that all but screamed in ecstasy.

For the first few minutes they rocked together, keeping their tempo slow yet consistent as the pleasure gradually climbed. Throughout it all Prowl whimpered into Jazz's audio. It felt incredibly good, each deep strike into his valve as their armor clanged at the exchange. Gold-black paint flakes adorned Jazz's groin, and he mused that he was probably no less decorated in evidence of their interface.

That thought abruptly derailed from an increase in speed. Arms reaching to securely wrap Prowl's legs around his waist, Jazz renewed his pace, clearly quite keen on reaching an overload that would no longer be refused.

Panting against his faceplates, Prowl reciprocated, hips pumping wildly against his lover's.

Lights flashed across his HUD. Energy crackled in the air between their frames. Spasms seized their limbs in erratic movements as the verge roared toward them.

Overload crashed through his systems in an electrical wave of raw, unadulterated ecstasy. There was no withholding the light scream that flew past his lips as Prowl seized against Jazz, clawing at his frame with each electromagnetic pulse, each frantic squeeze of his valve. The last thing he felt before his overtaxed systems plunged him into the black was Jazz's lips seizing onto his.

* * *

Somewhere overhead a bird chirped.

Groaning, Prowl's optics onlined with his frame in a flash of blue light. Groggily he lifted his helm, only to blink in surprise at the distinctive crackle of metal scraping against tree bark.

The unexpected sound brought his body fully online. Blinking the last traces of sleep out of his optics, Prowl switched his optical settings, adjusting to a far-scope view. Several limbs out from the one he was on an inquisitive robin continued to greet the dawn with its cheerful song.

Blearily he took in his surroundings, and was more than a bit surprised to find himself sprawled across the branch of the tree in his quarters. Especially since he had no recollection of how he got here.

Just as he was about to prop himself up, a previously-unaware of hand tightened around his waist, stilling the movement. "Mornin', Prowler."

"Jazz?" Prowl wondered aloud. "How did we—"

"Carried ya here last night after ya went offline," was the sleepy response. Behind him Jazz's body curled closer around his, helm nuzzling into the nape of his neck with a soft purr. "Didn't think it was a good idea t' recharge on th' couch, so I scooped ya up an' tucked ya in for th' night. Berth's only big enough for one mech, so I opted for Plan B."

"Ah." For the first time in a long while his frame sagged in easy contentment, uncharacteristically feeling well-rested. While the only mild discomfort was the telltale ache behind his closed panel, Prowl knew it would disappear in a day or two. Going from no interfacing in vorns to repeated overloads in one night tended to do that to a mech. "Thank you for staying here with me."

"My pleasure," Jazz murmured. He lightly mouthed over his armor, tickling the back of his neck. An unexpected laugh escaped him when Prowl squirmed at the stimulus. "Don't tell me; you're ticklish?"

"You seem to be forgetting that you tried_ chewing _through my neck cables last night. They're still sensitive."

"Eheh. Whoops," Jazz chortled. "Guess I let that lil' detail slip my mind."

Prowl merely rolled his optics in fond exasperation. "Only you would forget such a thing."

They stayed like that in companionable silence for several minutes. Prowl drank in the body heat emanating from the frame behind him, being lulled back into recharge by the gently revving engine.

After a heartbeat Jazz broke the quiet: "So how ya likin' _The Sorcerer's Stone_ so far?" To emphasize he waved the back of his hand toward the floor below, where the book could be seen atop a small table, a single bookmark jutting out from the pages. It sounded like Jazz was trying hard to swallow back his laughter.

Prowl huffed. "A lot of the logic in her writings makes no sense. While the language is fluid and engaging, it's still hard to ignore the holes in her story, such as how an entire castle can be hidden from humans by simply employing a spell. And how does a staircase choose to move on its own when it lacks sentience? Not to mention the—"

A finger over his lips hushed his long list of complaints, punctuated by the happy chuckle Jazz failed to contain.

"Don't over think it, Prowl," he soothed. He removed his arm to pull Prowl in a hug from behind. "It's a story. That's th' whole point, t' do things ya couldn't normally do in real life." Cheekily, he said, "If ya want, we could read it together sometime. Among other things."

Prowl shook his head in mock disbelief at the unmistakable leer in his lover's words. "You are insatiable," he laughed, softly.

"Nope," the saboteur corrected him. "Just addicted."

* * *

**Author's Note**: Alright, Avatar fans! If you want to know what Jazz said go Google the phrase _Nga yawne lu oer. _It should be the first result.

Well, that's a wrap! As I said before, this is my very first attempt at ever writing smut, or romance. Constructive criticism and feedback means a lot, as it shows me where I need to improve and what already works. All in all, hope you guys enjoyed this little two-shot. 'Til next time! :3


End file.
